


Yesterday, I Fell Out of Grace

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: The Avengers' center forward Steve Rogers is always on the go, moving from city to city, hotel to hotel, for hockey games and causing his personal life to suffer. He hasn't had a proper relationship in years. When his best friend Bucky Barnes suggest that they go on a fake date, he agrees to Bucky's ridiculous idea. His decision's consequences? Well, they change everything.





	Yesterday, I Fell Out of Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dudewhereismypie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudewhereismypie/gifts).



> This fic is my contribution to the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018! It was a fun couple of months writing this! I would like to thank my artist [made-of-stardusts](http://made-of-stardusts.tumblr.com/) and my beta/cheerleader [marleymortis](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/).

"Rogers!”

It’s only Bucky’s cry that keeps Steve alert as the left winger passes the puck to him with a powerful sweep of his hockey stick.

Steve swerves forward and swiftly scoops the puck up with his own stick, skates slashing across the ice, his eyes focused solely on the goal. He dodges a body-check from an opposing player and ducks under the stray elbow of another, moving close enough to take aim.

It’ll be a straight shot and easily blocked, but Steve knows the opposing team’s goalie and has studied his tells and weaknesses. If Steve aims low enough, the goalie will overestimate the distance and dive too far forward, and Steve will be able to score.

“Rogers,” Sam calls from the distance, circling the right side of the ice rink and trying to make his way closer to Steve. “Eyes up, man.”

Too late, Steve registers two opposing defensemen moving in from either direction, boxing Steve in and blocking his shot. The goalie is also shifting position in front of the goal, making it even more difficult for Steve.

“Shit,” Steve says lowly, eyes darting between the approaching Sam and the decreasing distance between him and the defensemen.

Steve can only make out the blur of an approaching brunet player in the red and black Avengers uniform out of the corner of his eyes, but it’s enough for him to be reassured.  

With an abrupt swing of his racquet, he passes the puck backwards to a waiting Bucky, who scoops it up and rockets toward Sam as Steve swerves and skids between the two defensemen.  He trusts Sam has intercepted Bucky’s pass, so Steve shifts position, prepared to receive a pass from Sam and line the shot up.

To his surprise, however, he pivots in time to watch, as expected, the goalie dive too low and the puck slam into the goal post and bounce into the net, likely exactly what Bucky had anticipated when he made the shot. It’s a clear goal, and the ref blows his whistle to signal so just as the buzzer blares for the final time, indicating the end of the game.

It’s the first and only goal of a game where both teams spent the majority of play time dancing around each other, blocking and body-checking, in an ugly game of cat-and-mouse. And of course, their victory is all thanks to Steve’s best friend, Bucky Barnes, who’s wearing a proud smirk and looking very much like the cat who caught the canary.

With a flick of his skates, Steve glides over to Bucky but is beat there by Sam, who claps the preening left winger on the back. “Kept waiting for you to make the pass to me, Barnes,” Sam states dryly.

“Well, you would have kept waiting,” Bucky shoots back. “It wasn’t gonna happen, Wilson.”

Tony skates over from their goal, joined by Clint and Rhodey, the defensemen of the Avengers. “Party at my hotel penthouse,” Tony announces as he stops right beside Bucky. “Barnes has given us a reason to celebrate. I’ve got plenty of alcohol, and I’m definitely going to take advantage of it.”

“Nah, man,” Clint tells Tony apologetically. “Laura’s in town for just tonight and tomorrow, so I’m gonna show her around.”

Tony waves it off. “What about you, Rhodey? Wilson?”

“Pepper will kill you,” Rhodey reminds him. “You said you’d lessen your alcohol intake during the season.”

Shrugging, Tony rolls his eyes. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“Hey,” Steve says sternly. “Go get some sleep, Tony. We need you in fighting shape this season. Rhodey?” He makes sure he catches the defenseman’s eye. “Keep an eye on him. No alcohol.”

“You got it, Cap.” Rhodey nods and skates away, pulling a scowling Tony with him.  

“I’m gonna get to the locker room,” Sam announces as Steve moves closer to Bucky. “I need a shower.”

“Me too,” Clint says, and together, they follow Rhodey and Tony off the rink.

“So,” Steve says to Bucky, “got plans to celebrate?”

Bucky’s smirk becomes more suggestive, and his eyes darken in thought. Steve groans, knowing he’s likely in for another night where Bucky stumbles in from the bar with a girl or guy on his arm, sometimes both or any combination of consenting adults that’ll fall for his charms.

Then, Bucky’s expression returns to normal, and he shakes his head. “Nah,” he tells Steve. “Not tonight.”

“Really?” Steve asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “So no drinks? No guys or girls? I won’t have to sleep on Sam’s couch.”

“Nope,” Bucky replies with a genuine smile. “Just me, my best guy, a crate of beer, and some burgers tonight.”

“Bucky,” Steve says with a hint of warning in his tone.

“Fine.” His best friend rolls his eyes. “No beers. But you gotta order the burgers.”

“Blue cheese and extra bacon?” Steve confirms, and when Bucky nods eagerly, Steve groans.  “Phil and the nutritionists are gonna kill us. They’ve worked on our meal plans for so long, but there’s no point if we don’t follow them.”

“Stevie,” Bucky says, clapping a hand over Steve’s shoulder. “Buddy, you don’t have to be Captain America, center forward of the Avengers, all the time. Let’s just go and unwind for now. We won the game. Hockey will still be there in the morning.”

“Alright,” Steve sighs as he agrees to Bucky’s demand that is nothing but logical. “I’ll meet you in our hotel room in an hour.”  

 

* * *

 

Tonight’s game was in Chicago, and Phil’s put them up in a decent hotel for once, only about ten minutes from the stadium. It’s two players per room, except for Tony who pays for his own penthouse suite as usual, so Bucky and Steve are rooming together again as they always do.

Which, of course, means that Steve gets to watch Bucky in the throes of an edible orgasm shared with the burger he’s wolfing down.

“Fuck,” Bucky moans as he takes his final bite. The sound is almost the same as the moan he makes when he orgasms, which because of the unfortunate hotel placings for the last three seasons, Steve has heard way more than he ever wished too.

“Get a room,” Steve tells the other man, rolling his eyes from where he is lounging backwards on his own hotel bed, having polished off his own burger about ten minutes ago. “Those noises you make are pornographic.”

Bucky shifts on the bed, rolling onto his stomach to peer at Steve through narrowed eyes. “Maybe if you got laid more often, my consumption of food wouldn’t turn you on.”  

Steve rolls his eyes and throws his wadded-up napkin at Bucky, who dodges it. “Asshole,” he mouths silently at the brunet.

“Immature,” Bucky mouths back mockingly. He slides off the bed and clambers onto Steve’s, flopping down beside him to rest his head on Steve’s shoulder. “How long has it been?” Bucky asks curiously.  

“How long has it been for what?” Steve asks with false ignorance, because he knows that it will irritate Bucky. He leans his head onto Bucky’s, enjoying the warmth of his best friend nestled against his side.

Some of the best moments of his life have been like this, lying beside Bucky in different hotel beds across the country, making conversation or just staring up at the cracked ceiling silently.

Bucky reaches over to sock Steve lightly on the arm. “Punk. How long has it been since you’ve had sex?” he demands.

“A few months,” Steve muses. “About six. It was definitely with Peggy.”

He’d spent a good year and half in a long-distance relationship with Peggy who would visit and drop in from London when she could before they’d realized it wouldn’t work out. It had been a mutual decision, and she’d headed back to London with the promise to keep in touch. The last that Steve had heard of her, she was dating a Broadway star named Angie Martinelli.

“Seriously?” Bucky suddenly sits upright, fixing Steve with an astonished glance. “Six months without getting laid? Buddy, we gotta fix that.”

Steve bristles; he can’t help but feel a little bit defensive about his sex life even if it’s Bucky. “Buck,” he says gently but with a firm edge. “Sex is not a game or competition. I don’t do one-night stands. When I find the right partner, I’ll sleep with them only when we both decide that it’s time.”

Bucky sighs, flopping back down and practically sinking into the hotel bed’s plush mattress. “I know, punk. You’ve always been a romantic. Fine. What about a date? When was the last time you went out on a nice date?”

Now, Steve blushes. “It’s been more than a year,” he admits sheepishly, glad that Bucky’s lying down again and can’t examine his expression. “Peggy and I didn’t have much time for traditional dating or courting.”  

“Damn,” Bucky says sympathetically. “That sucks. If there’s anything I like more than sex and food, it’s taking someone out.”

Steve’s mind flickers back to his first date with Peggy.  They’d gone to an art gallery in Brooklyn and later ice skating. “Yeah,” he whispers in agreement, lost in thought.

“Dinner at a nice restaurant so my date can get all classed up,” Bucky muses. “I’ll bring them flowers. A little bit of flirting. Some wine. Then maybe to a bar afterwards for drinks and then back to my apartment. Sometimes even theirs.”

“Or heading downtown to listen to some jazz,” Steve says thoughtfully. “Maybe even some dancing. Or a movie.” He tilts his head back and stares up dreamily at the ceiling, sighing. “I miss dating.”

“Hey,” Bucky says suddenly, as if the thought has just occurred to him. “Lemme take you out on a date.”

It’s Steve’s turn to bolt upright as he stares at his best friend like he’s an alien. “What? Did you just suggest that we go on a date? You know, the thing that two people do where they go out and dress up?”

Bucky sits up too. “I’m not asking you out on a date, punk,” he says, childishly flicking Steve on the cheek and laughing when Steve bats his hand away. “Or at least not an actual date. It’s just that you haven’t been on a date for so long, and I really just love taking people out.”

“So your suggestion is that we go on a platonic date?” Steve asks in disbelief.

“Exactly.” Bucky’s eyes brighten, and it’s like he completely missed Steve’s sarcasm.

“Are you sure?” Steve demands. So many of Bucky’s plans in the past have come back to bite the two of them in the ass. Like when Steve agreed to Bucky’s prank war on Natasha in middle school. They both got suspended, though it earned them the redhead’s unwavering and eternal friendship.

Or like when Steve followed Bucky to auditions for their high school hockey league which led to them getting sports scholarships to the same college.  That transitioned into playing in the same NHL league and being signed to the Avengers where Steve found himself rooming with Buck on the regular.  Unfortunately.

On the flip side, nothing about Bucky’s suggestion relays any kind of ulterior motive; his smile seems genuine and enthusiastic.

“Lemme do something nice for you, Stevie,” Bucky pressures, leaning into the blond. “C’mon. It’ll be fun. I promise.” He pouts dramatically up at Steve.

“Fine,” Steve says, glaring at Bucky. “I’ll go with you.”  

“It’ll be fun,” Bucky repeats again, his smile widening as he pokes Steve in the cheek. “I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbles. “It better.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock at their hotel room door early the next evening when Steve is in the bathroom gelling his hair back. “Can you get that, Buck?” he yells over his shoulder into the bedroom. He continues to study his reflection in the mirror, frowning as he finally decides to roll up the sleeves of his blue button-up and leave his outfit more casual.

But, then, what is casual if it’s a fake date with his best friend?

With a huff, Steve pushes the sleeves down but hesitates and ends up rolling them back up and smoothing down his shirt around his stomach where it’s tucked into his black slacks.

Again, there is a single knock on the door, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“Buck,” Steve says loudly as he comes out of the bathroom, “Bucky, I asked you to get the door.” Since Bucky himself obviously isn’t going to open it now, seeing that he’s no longer in the room, Steve slides the bolt before opening the door. “Huh?”  

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky says with a wave from where he’s leaning against the doorway, having stepped back after knocking on the door. “I’m here to pick you up for our date.”

“How the hell?” Steve asks in bewilderment, turning and glancing over his shoulder into the empty hotel room. “You were just in here. How’d you get out?”

Bucky snickers slightly at Steve’s reaction but relaxes his expression into a nice smile when Steve glares at him. “I snuck out while you were mooning over your reflection. I didn’t know you were so vain, Stevie.”

“I am not vain-” Steve attempts before he breaks off, sputtering. “Wha? Ugh. I wasn’t mooning!”

“Here,” Bucky announces. “These are for you.” He whips a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and offers them to Steve.

“Uhh,” Steve says, hesitating, until he finally glances down and breaks into a large smile. “Oh, peonies! Buck, they’re my favorite. How’d you know? Thank you!”  

“Dude, I grew up with you,” Bucky tells him. “I know these things. I have my ways.” He smirks up at Steve before stiffening. “Oh, wait. And, also this!” He reaches behind himself to produce a small brown bag folded informally in half, which he hands to Steve.

“What’s this?” Steve asks in bewilderment.

“A brownie,” Bucky explains. Then, he pauses and shrugs. “Well, half a brownie.” He pauses again. “Oh, well, actually, it’s just the bag. It was a long walk to find a florist in this fucking city, and then I was feeling faint…” He trails off when he realizes that Steve’s just silently snickering at him. “You’re such a punk!” he exclaims, lightly backhanding Steve’s shoulder.

“This whole fake-date thing actually doesn’t seem like it’s gonna be too bad,” Steve admits honestly.

Bucky wrinkles his nose in faux-offense. “Of course it won’t, Stevie,” he declares reassuringly, “it’s you and me. Nothing bad is gonna happen.”

“Whatever you say, Barnes,” Steve responds, chuckling, “whatever you say.”

The brunet ducks his head before glancing up again. His eyes light up. “Well, don’t you look nice,” he says kindly.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen me wear this same combo nearly ten times before, Buck.”

Bucky himself has slipped on a charcoal-grey suit jacket over his white button-up and has left the top three buttons popped open, looking sharp and handsome.

“Excuse me for just trying to compliment my date,” Bucky grumbles. “Now, c’mon. The Uber’s waiting downstairs.”

“An Uber, Barnes? You’re really spoiling me,” Steve says sarcastically as he grabs his wallet from the nightstand and slips on his dress shoes, kneeling to lace them up. He rises to his feet and pulls the room door shut behind him, tugging on it to ensure it’s locked.

“Shuddup,” Bucky tells him. “Do you know how hard it is to find a taxi in a city anymore?”

 

* * *

 

The Uber drops them off in front off a little brick building nestled on the corner of two intersecting streets. There is minimal traffic; this is clearly the more residential area of Chicago.

“Brimstone?” Steve says in confusion as he reads the restaurant’s name where it’s printed in cursive on the glass storefront.

“It’s really Italian,” Bucky explains as he straightens his suit jacket. “Bruce recommended it. It’s owned by a friend or something.”

Steve shrugs, but when he reaches to open the door, Bucky darts in front of him to hold the door open for him to enter. “Such a gentleman,” Steve comments sarcastically.

“Only the best treatment for my dates,” Bucky says charmingly.

Sadly, Steve’s been friends with Bucky for long enough that the brunet’s charisma doesn’t work on him. “That’s funny,” Steve replies dryly. “Because I remember when you ditched Marianne Fletcher on your date at the movie theater to come play video games with me in sophomore year.”

Bucky flushes pink. “C’mon. I was fifteen and an idiot. She didn’t talk to me for a week after that, and I was left finishing our AP Chem labs by myself. Why would you bring that up _now_?” he complains with a pout.

Steve shakes his head. “Buck, I’ve known you since we were wearing diapers. If you think that’s the most embarrassing story I have of you, then you’ll be terribly mistaken.”

“Alright,” Bucky states finally, following Steve inside the restaurant. “But none of that tonight. It’s just you and me.”

“On a fake date,” Steve adds, but Bucky ignores him, marching straight up to the maître d’.

“Excuse me,” Bucky says politely. “I have a seven o’clock reservation for two under Barnes.”

“Barnes?” the maître d’ asks to confirm, glancing down at the screen embedded in his podium. After a moment, he finds their reservation and glances up. “Of course, Mr. Barnes. Right this way.” He grabs two menus and leads them farther into the restaurant.

Bucky and Steve are seated in a quiet booth in a corner that overlooks the large glass window near the entrance where they can sit almost diagonal each other in the circular booth. Though it’s unlikely there are enough Avengers fans in Chicago to recognize them, their location is private enough to avoid such an encounter.

“Anything jump out at you?” Bucky asks Steve as both men browse the menu.

“Nothing specific,” Steve replies, “but I’m in the mood for some kind of pasta.”

“Carbs?” Bucky asks sarcastically. “You’re willing to break the team meal plan?”

“Shuddup,” Steve murmurs, blushing brightly. “I talked to the nutritionist. It’s fine for one night, but we’re prohibited from alcohol.”

Bucky scowls lightly. “You’re such a buzzkill,” he complains playfully, swatting at Steve’s shoulder.

“And we have a game tomorrow,” Steve reminds him, waggling his eyebrows dramatically until Bucky doubles over in laughter.

“May I take your order, sirs?” a server asks as she arrives besides their booth, looking at Bucky in poorly-masked amusement.

“Um, yeah,” Steve says awkwardly. “I’ll take the chicken pappardelle.”

The server jots his order down on her notepad before addressing Bucky. “And for you, sir?”

Bucky wheezes, still recovering from his fit of hysterical laughter. “Give me a moment,” he says breathlessly. When he seems to have gotten himself under control, he straightens and smiles charismatically at the server, who pinkens slightly at the intense focus from Bucky’s eyes. “I’ll take the chicken parm.”

“Of course, sir,” the server squeaks slightly, scribbling it down. “Anything to drink?” Her gaze flickers shyly towards Bucky.

“Just two waters,” Steve smoothly intervenes, and the server nods and carefully backs away, almost bumping into a fake potted plant.

Sometimes, Steve forgets his best friend’s movie star good looks.  Then someone will stumble under the weight of his charisma and spark memories of that teenage wet dream Steve had never forgotten.  That dream was the catalyst that made him aware of his bisexuality, but he’s suppressed his attraction to Bucky for years.

Another server arrives to fill their glasses with water, and he keeps his eyes glued to Bucky’s face, turning his head over his shoulder as he walks away, until he nearly trips and then is forced to face straight.  

Steve sighs. “So, what do you think of practicing some new plays at the stadium before the game tomorrow?” he asks.

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky blurts. “No, no, no. No hockey stuff tonight. Okay? We’re on a date. A real, fake date.”

“Okay. Alright.” Steve smirks up at Bucky. “Hey, I get to see what the infamous Bucky Barnes is like on a date.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “So, do you have any moves?”

“Any moves?” Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I’m just myself, and, if they don’t like me for myself-” He can’t keep a straight face and bursts into a short fit of giggles that has Steve rolling his eyes and patting his best friend on the back. Bucky straightens and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he cries breathlessly. “I couldn’t even get through that.”

“Are you usually this smooth?” Steve asks, unimpressed.

Bucky’s expression contorts like he’s about to start giggling again, but he pinches the sensitive skin of the inside of his wrist and grits his teeth. “Right, so, I usually start by having a bottle of wine sent to my table by a fan.”

“Oh my god.” It’s Steve’s time to snort in laughter. “And that actually works?”

Bucky shrugs. “Well, it does if you time it right. Most of my dates know that I’m kinda famous, but a good number don’t know where they recognize me from. So to play it right, I usually pair it with some good old-fashioned bashfulness.” He pitches his voice slightly higher and ducks his head. “ _This is so embarrassing. I just want to have a normal life_.”

“Oh, you poor little famous man,” Steve comments, and Bucky smiles widely. “I’m surprised you can even use that and have your date come home with you.”

“Hey,” Bucky interjects teasingly, “not everyone can have my charm. Besides, I have a few more moves up my sleeve. This one always helps me out.” He tilts his head down towards Steve, fixing him with a surprisingly believable expression of adoration. “I was gonna wait until the end of the night,” he begins slowly, inching his head closer, “but you’re so beautiful…” He pauses dramatically, turning his head slightly to the side. “I don’t think I can wait until then.” His head slowly drops closer to Steve’s.

On impulse, Steve finds himself shifting closer, head stretching upwards and eyes drawn to his lips. For a moment, Steve gives in to the magnetism and allows his lips to part. Bucky’s eyes widen. Have they always been so _blue_?

Then he remembers himself and straightens, gazing at his best friend in newfound appreciation. “Wow,” he says in surprise, leaning away from Bucky to press his back into the plush leather padding of the booth. “That was fantastic. I almost leaned in; I actually almost did. I can see how that works for you.”

Bucky nods eagerly. “See. You just have to be careful and crafty about how you use them, but most times it works in wooing my date.”

Is it just Steve’s imagination, or is there what appears to be a sliver of regret, maybe even longing, smoldering in the depths of Bucky’s stormy eyes?

No, it can only be Steve’s mind tricking him into imagining things that actually aren’t there.

Just like that, he becomes increasingly aware of how he clutches the table, his grip tightening and his wrist pressing intimately against Bucky’s other hand, their skin brushing together as Bucky shifts in his seat.

Steve yanks his hand off the table.

“Problem?” Bucky asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Just need to itch my hand,” Steve says lamely, and he does so, scratching at his wrist.

“Okay…” Bucky drawls, and at that moment, their original server arrives with their food, setting plates on the table before scurrying away with a quick peek at Bucky, an action that for some reason strikes a chord of jealousy and irritation in Steve.  

They dive into their meals, and Steve enjoys each bite of pasta. It’s such a rarity for him to have something so creamy and carb-heavy that isn’t meal plan approved, so he attempts to scarf down as much as possible.

Within minutes, they’ve wolfed down half their meals.

“God,” Bucky remarks. “I wish we could eat like this every night.”

“We play hockey to make a living,” Steve reminds him, no matter how much he secretly agrees with Bucky’s statement. “We’ll be woefully out of shape if we eat like this every night.”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” Bucky declares dramatically.

Steve snickers into his bowl and continues to stuff his face with pasta and chicken.

When their bowls are clean, every stray morsel polished off, Bucky turns to face Steve. “What about you?” he demands. “Does Steve Rogers have any moves?”

“A few,” Steve replies, feeling the sudden need to impress. He leans in and focuses his entire gaze on Bucky. “So where’d you grow up?”

Bucky releases a sudden bark of laughter. “Really, Rogers? That’s your move.” He shakes his head. “You’re lucky that you’re hot, Stevie.”

Steve flushes. “Just play along, Barnes,” he demands with warm cheeks.

“Alright,” Bucky sighs, barely masking his exasperation. “Brooklyn.”

Steve shifts closer and covers Bucky’s hand on the table with his own. He holds Bucky’s gaze in an intense stare. “And were you close with your parents?”

Bucky chews his lip thoughtfully. “I guess. Definitely close to my mom.” He hesitates. “Not so much with my dad.”

“Oh.” Steve cocks his head and affects a tone of concern, inching closer. “Why not?”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky frowns slightly. “I dunno. I guess there’s always been this distance between Dad and me. I mean, we both try to believe it’s not there, but it is. He was gone for a good chunk of our high school years and even earlier. I can’t blame him for his deployments, but it kinda feels like he missed me growing from a kid into an adult and still treats me like a child.”

“Oh,” Steve repeats, rubbing Bucky’s inner wrist soothingly. “That’s gotta be tough.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muses. “It is tough. It really is. Y’know, sometimes I think-” Immediately, he stiffens and looks bewildered for a moment before glancing at where their hands are touching on the table in realization and then fixing Steve with a look of appreciation. “You sly dog. Wow. Nice move. I guess you’re more charming than I thought, Rogers. You’ve certainly improved since our last double date.”

“That was about a decade ago, Buck,” Steve replies distractedly, hand still curled around Bucky’s wrist. “Back in high school.”

“Alright,” Bucky says. He hesitates awkwardly. “Stevie, you’re gonna have to let go of my hand. I need to drink water.”

“Wha?” Steve’s attention darts to where their hands are still clutched together. “Oh.” He quickly releases Bucky’s hand, dropping it like it burned his skin, and Bucky frowns. “Sorry,” Steve says sheepishly, blushing.

“It’s fine,” Bucky replies with a puzzled expression.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Steve announces. “I’ll be back.” He slides from the booth and hurries away before Bucky can get another word in.

He makes his way to the bathroom, which is thankfully empty, and wraps his hands around the sink’s edge, meeting his own gaze in the mirror.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

There’s this warm, little pit of _feelings_ nestled in the pit of his stomach, resting there being _fucking inconvenient_.

Steve hasn’t given proper thought to his attraction to Bucky in years, always forcing it away. But, now, this _stupid little fake date_ has unlocked that pit of vipers, and suddenly all Steve cares about is kissing Bucky’s hand or even worse, pulling his best friend in for a spine-tingling kiss.

He sighs heavily, his grip tightening around the sink until his knuckles turn white. He does his best to clear his mind, running possible game plays through his mind until his breathing calms.

When he feels confident enough, he returns to the table to find Bucky standing up beside the booth.

“Finally,” Bucky announces a little too loudly. “I thought you got lost in there. Either way, it’s my turn now.” He disappears into the back of the restaurant, and Steve slides into the booth, staring down at the now-cleared table.

“Excuse me, sir,” a server, the third to attend to them in the entire evening, says as she appears beside them. “Here’s your receipt.”

Steve glances up, taking the slip of paper. “Oh, thanks.”

Apparently, Bucky had paid while Steve was in the bathroom.

“Also,” the server states kindly, “may I say that you and your boyfriend are very cute together.”

“Oh,” Steve says awkwardly, “thank you but-” Before he can correct her assumption, the server moves away to clear a nearby table of its plates.

Bucky returns and eyes the receipt in Steve’s hand. “Ready to go?” he asks.

Steve nods, rising to his feet, and together they walk outside and stop on the sidewalk. Bucky is about to pull his phone out, likely to call them another Uber, but Steve interjects. “It’s a nice night out here,” he says. “Let’s just walk to our hotel.”

“Alright,” Bucky agrees with a smile, and they set off to cross the street.

 

* * *

 

Since Bucky and Steve have had the same, easy-going friendship since they first met when they were seven in Brooklyn, it only takes a few minutes for them to fall back into an entertaining conversation, though it’s slightly stilted and hesitant because every time Steve glances over, his gaze ends up glued to Bucky’s plush lips.

By the time they reach their hotel and climb the stairs to their floor, they’re engaged in a very riveting conversation about who they’d want to be partnered with in a zombie apocalypse.

“Definitely Nat,” Bucky states confidently as they continue down the hallway. “She works in mysterious ways. She’s got a black belt in jiu jitsu and has excellent knife-throwing aim.”

“Where does she even work?” Steve wonders out loud.

“Same, buddy, same.” Bucky slings an arm over Steve’s shoulder and tugs him closer; Steve becomes acutely aware of how close he is to Bucky, how he can feel the other man’s warmth seeping into him, a fact that has never bothered him before. “We’ve known Nat for over a decade, and I don’t even think I know her favorite brand of vodka.” They arrive in front of their hotel room, and Bucky reaches into his pocket for his keycard. “What about you?”

Steve doesn’t even have to think about it as Bucky shoulders the door open, and he follows the brunet inside. “You,” he says. “I want you by my side if we’re stuck facing a zombie apocalypse.”

Something about the tone of his voice and the slight waver in his words causes Bucky to turn around and fix Steve with a curious expression. “Why?” he asks quietly.

The words slip from Steve’s mouth without him intending them to. “Because you’ve always been there,” he says lowly. “You’re a constant in my life, the ever-fixed north star.” It strikes him just how _not platonic_ those words sound the moment he says them, but they keep spilling from his lips. “I consider you a natural extension of myself.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, his lips part slightly, and he takes an immediate step towards Steve. “You’ve never told me anything like that before,” he breathes, stalking toward Steve like a majestic tiger. Steve feels frozen to the spot by the intensity of his gaze. Finally, Bucky moves within arm’s distance, backing the other man against the wall. “Tell me if you don’t want this,” he whispers before slowly swooping in and capturing Steve’s lips.

The moment Bucky’s lips touch his, it feels more natural than anything Steve’s ever felt before. Quickly, he surges forward and molds his body against the brunet’s, as he’s suddenly overcome by the desire to touch more of Bucky. One hand threads through Bucky’s hair while he uses the other to untuck Bucky’s shirt enough for his hand to slip beneath, fingertips tracing the ripples of his muscular abdomen.

Bucky is _everywhere_ ; he nips at Steve’s lips and licks into the warm, wet depths of his mouth.  He cups a gentle hand at the nape of Steve’s neck and nuzzles his nose along the length of Steve’s throat.

Steve can feel himself hardening in his slacks, and somehow, he finds himself hoisted up against the wall, legs slung around Bucky’s waist, as they grind their groins together. Steve throws his head back. His head bumps painfully against the wall, but he can’t bring himself to care because Bucky chooses that moment to reach down and palm Steve’s bulge.

“Fuck,” Steve hisses as he bucks his hips against Bucky’s hand, chasing the pleasure. He tightens his grip around Bucky’s waist and rolls his hips again, causing Bucky to whimper, making his eyes screw up.

“Take your clothes off,” he complains, pawing blindly at Steve’s belt buckle as Steve leans his head forward and ducks down to suck bruising kisses into the skin across Bucky’s collarbone. Somewhere along the way, Bucky lost his suit jacket and a good amount of the buttons of his shirt have been undone, so Steve takes advantage of the naked skin he now has access to, brushing his nose, tracing the contours of Bucky’s impressive pectoral muscles.

With hasty hands, Steve tears Bucky’s button-down open, the buttons clattering to the floor noisily, and helps the brunet shrug it off before moving to unbuckle his own slacks and shove them off his legs. When he looks up, Bucky has done the same to his own slacks and stands there buck-naked, his cock flushed and standing erect. Drops of precome pearl at the slit.

He looks so fucking delectable with his messy hair, parted lips, the colorful hickeys littered across his throat and neck, and his cock standing against his belly. Steve just wants to drag his hands all over Bucky’s chest. He wants to experience how warm and silky the brunet’s skin really is, and now he lusts to put his hands back on Bucky.

“C’mere,” Steve says, stumbling backwards towards the nearest bed, beckoning Bucky with one hand. The back of his knees hit the foot of the bed, and he collapses, the breath whooshing from his lungs as his spine collides with the mattress. Bucky takes advantage of his momentary distraction to clamber onto the bed and straddle the other man.

“I love this view,” Bucky announces as he peers down at Steve, who’s sprawled across the mattress with his cock a painful shade of red.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Steve shoots back, chest heaving. He bucks his hips, taking Bucky by surprise, and flips them to box Bucky in, one hand braced on the pillow beside Bucky’s head to brace himself above the brunet. “Where’s the lube?”  

“The what?” Bucky takes a moment to focus his hazy eyes before pointing at the nightstand.

Steve yanks a drawer open and grabs the lube, popping the lid and pouring a copious amount into his hand before setting the bottle back on the nightstand. With his free hand, he reaches between them and grasps Bucky’s cock.  The brunet’s cry turns into a whimper as Steve flicks his thumb across the head.

Steve gathers his own cock into his hand, clutching it beside Bucky’s and enjoying the contrasting coolness of the lube and warmth of their cocks as they brush against each other. Both men moan at the sensation.

“Move, Stevie, move your fucking hand,” Bucky cries in frustration.

Smirking, Steve squeezes his hand around their cocks, watching Bucky bite his lip and throw his head back farther, his dark hair a shocking contrast against the white cotton of the pillowcase. Steve himself grinds his teeth as he squeezes their cocks together again.  “If you insist,” he croons to Bucky. “I wanna hear you _scream_.”  

Then, he begins to jerk them off at such a pace that Bucky’s eyes roll back into his head and he _keens_ beautifully into Steve’s ear. His own toes curl from the pleasure, and he increases his speed, changing his grip to provide their cocks more friction.

“Oh, Steve, _fuck_ ,” Bucky gasps, and Steve _twists_ his hand just so. “Do that again,” Bucky nearly wails. “Just, oh, _fuck!_ ”

Steve complies, twisting and squeezing their cocks together. Ultimately, he thrusts up into the warmth of his hand, his cock slipping and sliding against Bucky’s with ease. “Uhhh,” Steve groans. “Fuck.”

“Steve,” Bucky bites off breathlessly. “ _Faster_.”

Steve can feel his balls tightening as his mind blurs into a haze of pleasure.  He chases that feeling, his grip becoming just a little sloppier as he begins to lose his focus. With a final twist, he comes, his head dropping low as his mind blanks out, Bucky’s name on his lips. In the depths of his consciousness, he hears Bucky groan as he comes, calling out Steve’s name, and his cum splatters between their chests.  

Slipping forward, Steve falls onto the bed beside Bucky and hooks an arm and leg over the brunet, who nestles closer. Within minutes, both men are overcome by the exhaustion of their orgasms, of their pleasure and their lust and pass out.

 

* * *

 

Thin streams of sunlight filter in through the blinds, falling in shafts along Steve’s eyes, and he grumbles and attempts to flip over when he realizes both arms are wrapped tightly around a living and breathing naked person.

A living, breathing, naked _Bucky_ , he realizes when he finally opens his eyes.

Icy horror fills Steve’s veins as his gaze takes in the cum dried on his stomach and crusted on the sheets trapped between them and the hickeys littering Bucky’s chest and shoulders.  

Steve tries to ease his arms from Bucky and slip out of the bed, but Bucky squirms closer, snuggling his head into Steve’s neck. Helplessly, he prods the brunet in the lower back several times. “Buck,” Steve hisses, also shaking him slightly by the shoulder. “Buck, wake up.” When there’s no response, he adopts a firm tone. “James Buchanan Barnes, wake the _fuck_ up.”

“Huh?” Bucky blinks bleary eyes up at Steve, looking unfairly adorable with his sleep-mussed hair and pouty lips, and Steve can feel butterflies beginning to flutter in his stomach and attempts to shove the feelings back into their little box. “Hey, Stevie,” he slurs.

A moment later, Bucky stiffens in Steve’s arms, and his eyes flicker open and widen as his gaze darts to Steve. “What the _fuck_?” Bucky says. “What the fuck, Steve? _What did we do last night_?”

There’s no answer that Steve can give that will help ease the situation, so he remains silent, and Bucky bites his lip in hesitation, a series of emotions flickering across his face, none of which Steve can pinpoint. Finally, the brunet nods and yanks himself from Steve’s grip, searching for his clothes on the floor.

Bucky quickly slips on the nearest pair of slacks and a shirt which Steve identifies as his own, scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair. His lips turn up in a brief regretful smile. “I’m gonna go. I’ll be with Sam.”

Just as it occurs to Steve to prevent Bucky from leaving so that they can have a conversation about last night, Bucky steps towards the door.

“Bucky, wait!” Steve cries, launching himself off the bed. His legs become tangled in the bedsheets, and he trips, hitting the ground just as the door swings shut behind Bucky. “Well, fuck,” Steve says to himself in the now-empty room.  

 

* * *

 

When the team meets back up at the airport, Bucky won’t meet Steve’s eyes. He has his suitcase, so he must have snuck into their hotel room and packed sometime after Steve left. He sticks to Sam as he chats with Clint and Bruce, leaving Steve to run over game plans with Phil and their assistant coach Mack.  

As they board the plane, Sam comes up to Steve and says, “Barnes told me what happened between you two.” He fixes Steve with a pitying look. “I hope you white boys pull your heads from your asses.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve calls after Sam, left even more bewildered than he was this morning.

In their hotel in Los Angeles, Phil entrusts Steve and Bucky with separate keycards to their hotel room, and as Steve heads to the room, he spots Bucky slink off with Sam in an unknown direction.  

Steve stomps down the sudden hurt he feels upon seeing Bucky.

Practice is awkward when Steve’s best friend and left winger is buddying up with the team’s right winger, leaving Steve, the center forward, struggling as they attempt to practice passes.

Steve almost expects it when the Avengers lose their first game of the entire season when he attempts to pass the puck and Bucky isn’t there.  The puck gets scooped up an opposing player.

“Rogers,” Phil demands, cornering Steve in the stadium’s locker room after he showers. “What was that? Neither you nor Barnes are talking to each other or making eye contact; don’t think I didn’t notice. I don’t care what happened. Just fix it before we start a losing streak. You two and Wilson are the cornerstones of this team.” He then storms off before Steve can even get a word in.

 

* * *

 

Steve finally corners Bucky, who is likely scurrying off to Sam or Clint’s room, in a hallway of the hotel. “We gotta talk,” he begins with a sense of urgency, “about what happened between us.”

Bucky freezes in his tracks, stiffening, and glances down, looking uncomfortable. “So talk,” he tells Steve.

He still can’t meet Steve’s eyes.

Frustration growing, Steve throws his hands up. “We slept together,” he declares loudly, and Bucky’s gaze jerks up in surprise. “We _fucked_. We’ve been best friends for over two decades, so something must have been there between us. People _don’t_ just fall into bed together like that.”

“So we did,” Bucky shoots back with unexpected passion. “What are we supposed to do about that? There isn’t a morning-after guide for us. I’m doing the best I can to figure this out!”

“You’re doing that alone!” Steve cries. “You’re ignoring me! You’re not figuring _this_ out; you’re just avoiding it. And people are beginning to notice. Sam knows, and Phil can see that something’s wrong. He confronted me after the game. How much longer until the rest of the team finds out? It’s already affecting our playing.”

Bucky doesn’t appear to have an answer to that. He stares at Steve blankly, stuttering. “I…” he begins before trailing off.

“Talk to me, Buck,” Steve pleads, feeling on the verge of breaking down.  “Did we ruin our friendship in just one night? Please. Just say something.”

The brunet’s lips part as if he’s finally going to reply, but, at that exact moment, there’s the familiar ringtone of Bucky’s phone, and he dives into his jeans’ pocket to retrieve it. He glances down at the screen, and his face pales. “It’s Nat,” he tells Steve. “I’m sorry. I gotta take this.”

“Buck,” Steve murmurs, carefully examining the tightness of Bucky’s lips and the dark circles under his eyes, but Bucky just turns and disappears down the hallway.

Steve wants to scream, but he forces himself to proceed to his hotel room and slips inside before falling face-down onto the white coverlet of his bed.

 

* * *

 

By the evening of the next day, the Avengers return to New York, and Steve spends the night in his own bed in his apartment in Brooklyn for the first time in about a week and a half.

He bought it last year after renting an apartment in Manhattan near the stadium where the Avengers practice for his first year and a half on the team. It’s fairly spacious for being located in a high rise and is strewn with art supplies and comfy furniture that Bucky loves to laze around on whenever he’s over.

In the morning, Steve rises early and jogs a few loops around Prospect Park. He cooks a quick breakfast of eggs and potatoes and eats it while watching a history documentary that he queues up on Netflix. All in all, it’s a pretty quiet morning.

Phil’s given the team the day off, so by afternoon, Steve’s finished off his few errands and is wandering around Brooklyn, pondering what he can do for the rest of the day.

Normally, he’d stop by Bucky’s place, and they’d watch a movie or maybe make plans to meet with Natasha, but Steve has no idea if the redhead is even currently in the city, and yesterday Bucky had left the airport in a separate taxi without so much as a goodbye to Steve.  

Back in the eighth grade, Bucky and his family vacationed in Indiana for the summer.  The separation had been miserable, and this feels like that all over again.  They’ve never had a falling out this severe before.

Sighing, Steve takes a seat on a bench in front of a pizzeria and pulls his phone out, thumbing through his Twitter feed listlessly. He finds a meme that he chuckles over and nearly sends it to Bucky out of instinct before remembering that the brunet is currently giving him the cold shoulder. His face falls.

Luckily, a distraction arrives in the form of a text from his ma.  She wants him to come for a visit if he’s free.

He replies immediately and stands to flag down a taxi.

Sarah Rogers had been a nurse at the same hospital for much of Steve’s life before being promoted to the Director of Nursing position.  A few years ago, she’d been appointed to the Board of Directors, a job that came with the pay raise that had allowed her to buy a costly brownstown on the outskirts of Brooklyn.

Steve arrives at his ma’s place, and Sarah opens the door nearly the exact moment that Steve knocks on the hardwood.

“Oh, Steve,” Sarah cries, throwing her arms around him. “I missed you.”

It’s still an odd feeling to tower over his ma after a childhood spent shorter than most people he encountered, but he tightly wraps his arms around her and buries his nose in her hair, inhaling the fragrance of the sweet, floral perfume that’s reminiscent of watching her get dolled up for parties.

“I missed you too, Ma,” he says, though his words come out muffled.

Sarah has barely changed over the years, still petite and bird-boned with the steely gaze of an army drill sergeant.  Grey now threads her platinum hair.  She bundles Steve inside the house, shutting the door behind him as he slips off his shoes near the coat closet.  

He takes a seat on his ma’s couch and instantly perks up at the mingled scents of vanilla and cinnamon. “You baked?” he asks eagerly.

If there’s something he can’t resist, it’s his ma’s cookies.

She nods. “I knew you were coming back today, and Phil usually gives you a few days off when you return. I hoped you would miss your ma enough to come over.”

“I always miss you, Ma,” Steve tells her. “You don’t have to bake cookies to lure me over.”

Sarah smiles tenderly. “I know, my boy, I know. Now, where’s Bucky? That rascal always tags along when you visit. I think he likes swiping my cookies off the trays more than he likes me.”

His expression wavers at the mention of Bucky, and Sarah’s eagle eyes take notice before he can force himself to smile again.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting beside him and placing a gentle hand over his own.

“Nothing, Ma,” Steve replies, lying straight through his teeth. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Steven Grant,” Sarah says sternly, cupping his face with her hand and forcing him to look at her. “You never lie to your ma. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Ma,” he sighs and leans into her touch.

He opens his mouth, and it all comes tumbling out: the date, the flirting, the feelings, the sex, the misunderstandings. Everything.

When he’s done explaining, Sarah leans back against the cushion and exhales heavily. Then she turns to Steve and shakes her head. “Idiots, both of you.”

“ _What_?” Steve says, taken aback. “Ma?”

“Look, my boy,” she says honestly. “Both you and Bucky have definitely crossed a line in your relationship. But it’s as you said, there must have been something there between you before.”

“Ma,” he says again, almost pleadingly.

She goes on. “Listen. Bucky has never known how to deal with his emotions well. The boy received all of Winifred and George’s looks but none of their common sense. You can only wait for him to process how he feels about your night together and how he feels about you. Until then, have you had time to do that for yourself?”

“I …” Steve begins, and his ma glances at him expectantly. “I don’t know.” He hesitates. “I’m afraid we ruined our friendship because I acted on a childhood crush.”

“It definitely was not a childhood crush,” Sarah comments. “I remember how you two looked at each other throughout high school. He acted like you hung the moon.” She chuckles briefly. “Of course, your eyes were also always on him. You filled about three of your sketchbooks with just images of Bucky.”

“I don’t-- But what am I supposed to do?” Steve stutters, bewildered beyond belief.  

She purses her lips. “And I don’t expect that I would be able to give you specific directions, my boy. You will have to work this out with James yourself. Give him some time, and he’ll come to talk to you himself.”

_But how long will that take?_ Steve wants to ask, but he knows she won’t have that answer anymore than he does.

His phone chimes as it receives a message. “Oh,” he says as he glances down at the screen. “That’s Nat. She wants to meet. Says she’s only in town for tonight.” He looks hopelessly at his ma.

Sarah chuckles. “Go on, boy. Go meet Natasha. I’ll still be here tomorrow. Come join me for brunch.”

Steve smiles, rising to his feet and leaning down to kiss his ma on the cheek. “Alright, Ma. I love you. See you later.”

“I will hold you to that, my boy.” Sarah makes to stand, but Steve waves her off, promising her to come over for dinner soon as he makes his way to the door and lets himself out.

 

* * *

 

Natasha orders Steve to “dress in something other than old man clothes,” so Steve wears a tight-fitting maroon Henley and his favorite black leather jacket that Sam bought him for Christmas and ruffles his hair so it falls messily before styling it with gel.

He meets Nat at the Panther, a club owned by Brooklyn’s resident billionaire T’challa Udaku, who’s also known to them as the guy most likely to be the king of an isolated African nation.

It’s an inside joke that Steve doesn’t entirely understand, but still he nods to T’challa as he weaves through the writhing crowd to reach the booth that is usually reserved for them.

 T’challa’s younger sister Shuri is manning the DJ booth, and she waves at him cheerfully, bobbing her head in tune to the thumping rhythm. He waves back.

“Hey, Nat,” he says when he arrives, wrapping her in a quick hug. “How have you been?”

Natasha narrows her jade eyes at him. “Good,” she says, brief and cryptic as she usually is. Her curls are wound up in a tight bun, and she’s wearing a leather minidress that not many people would be able to pull off as well as she does. “You look well,” she comments, scanning him head-to-toe.

That’s Nat’s way of saying that she missed him.

“Thanks,” he shoots back, nodding in greeting to Sam, who’s slumped against the black leather of the booth, glass bottle of soda in hand.

“Hey, man,” Sam says as Steve takes a seat beside him, Nat perching on the table.

Steve smiles. “Where’s everyone?” He glances at the empty seats around them pointedly.

“Sharon and Riley are in the crowd dancing,” Sam tells him, referencing Nat’s girlfriend and Sam’s best friend. “Barnes is probably somewhere around, I dunno. I haven’t seen him since the first round of shots.”

Steve’s smile falters, and he knows that Natasha is perceptive enough to note his expression just like his ma was. “Bucky’s here?” he asks, taking the bottle from Sam’s grasp and draining its remains to mask the tremor in his voice.

“Man, get your own drink,” Sam snaps, though he’s smiling. Then he shakes the bottle and realizes that Steve emptied it, and he scowls. “Go get me another one, too.”

“Yup,” Nat says, watching him critically. “Bucky came along.”

“Alright.” Steve nods, rising to his feet. “I’m gonna get you another drink,” he tells Sam, moving away before Sam can refuse him.

Okoye, T’challa’s right-hand woman, is working the bar, and she nods to him, asking, “One soda?”

“Yeah,” he says, slipping onto the stool in front of the counter. “Not for me, for Sam.”

She fixes him with a disbelieving stare, reaching under the bar to retrieve two bottles, both of which she uncaps before sliding one to Steve. “Here, you look like you need one,” she says dryly. “I’ll have Ayo or Aneka drop off the other at your table for Wilson.”

“But-” Steve protests.

“Consider it on the house,” she says, silencing him with a raised eyebrow.

He accepts defeat and grabs the soda, taking small sips and turning to survey the crowd.

It’s a weeknight, and there’s not too many people here, so he easily spots Sharon swaying to the music, her gold hair gleaming under the colorful lights. Riley’s a bit harder to find, but he’s towards the edge of the dance floor, flailing his arms wildly.

Steve laughs; Sam is often complaining about Riley’s “white boy moves.”

Someone takes a seat on the stool beside Steve’s, and his attention is drawn towards them.

She’s a bit taller than Nat with vaguely Asiatic features and wavy dark hair that falls messily on her shoulders.  She’s wearing a leather jacket similar to Steve’s, a nude minidress with black designs, and black boots. “Hey,” she says, sticking her hand out to Steve in a friendly gesture. “I’m Daisy.”

“Steve,” he says in reply. She’s quite pretty, and he’s tired of worrying over Bucky, so he decides to give it a shot. “So, what are you doing in a nightclub on a Wednesday night?”

Daisy throws her head back and laughs, holding her hand out to halt Steve. “Woah, there, buddy,” she says, chuckling. “Honestly, you’re really hot, and I’m flattered, but you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

Steve’s glad that the lighting can conceal his blush. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says politely, taking a deep sip of his soda. “Do you like girls?”

“I’m not partial to men or women,” she explains, brushing her hair over her shoulder, “but my boyfriend Lincoln is somewhere in the crowd there.”

“Right,” Steve says as he sets the bottle down on the counter, pouting slightly. “I’m sorry again.”

“It’s fine.” Daisy waves him off, squinting carefully at him. “Relationship problems?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I slept with my best friend and kinda ruined my friendship with him. He’s avoiding me, but our friend called us to this club, and well, he’s here somewhere.”

“Oh, that’s rough,” Daisy says sympathetically. “Trust me, I know something about ruining friendships. I got in with a bit of the wrong crowd in college, nearly dropped out. Then I found better friends who supported me and convinced me to stay. How long did you know your guy?”

“About twenty or more years,” Steve admits, rapping his knuckles against the now empty bottle.

Daisy lets out a long, low whistle. “Holy shit. I wish you luck, buddy.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, leaning back against the counter. “So, what _are_ you doing at a nightclub on Wednesday night?”

“Celebrating my friend Jemma’s birthday,” Daisy says, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket. “We all work at SHIELD Industries. I’m a computer engineer. And as you can tell, clubs aren’t really my scene.”

“Same!” he responds. “I’m an NHL player.”

She squints at him again, and then her eyes widen in recognition. “You’re Steve Rogers!”

“Yup.” Steve nods, bracing himself to be asked for an autograph, but Daisy goes and surprises him again.

“What a fucking coincidence,” she says. “Phil Coulson, your couch, well, he’s basically my uncle. Mack’s like my big brother.”

“Huh. Phil’s always talking about a Daisy he knows. What a small world,” Steve surmises with a smile.

“Yeah, no kidding.” She laughs.

They continue talking, and Steve finds that, not only does Daisy have a wicked sense of humor, she’s also very witty and intelligent. They trade numbers and also stories about Phil, Mack, and the rest of the team, and Steve tells her about growing up in Brooklyn.

He’s doubled over with laughter at a joke that Daisy told him when Bucky materializes beside his stool with a nervous smile. “Hey, Stevie,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Buck?” Steve asks in surprise and bewilderment. “What are you doing here?”

“Nat invited me,” Bucky says with a chuckle, though something sounds off about his voice. He narrows his eyes at Daisy. “Who’s she?”

“She,” Daisy interrupts, her eyebrows cocked, “has a name, and it’s Daisy. You must be Bucky. Steve was just talking about you.”

Steve sighs as Bucky sweeps Daisy with an assessing glance from head-to-toe. Now, as usual, Bucky will lean in and begin his flirting. Steve doesn’t think that Daisy will ignore him in favor of Bucky, but she does seem like the type of person who will flirt back.

To Steve’s immense astonishment, Bucky’s lips don’t curve into his signature smirk, nor does he begin to flirt with Daisy. Instead, he scowls. “Steve was telling a _stranger_ about me?” he asks skeptically.

Something about Bucky’s tone puts Steve off. “I wouldn’t say a stranger,” he drawls in response. “How long have we been talking, Daisy? It’s been about an hour.”

“An hour and a half, really,” Daisy adds coolly, checking the time on her phone.

Nodding, Steve turns to face Bucky. “There you have it,” he says. “We’re not strangers anymore.”

Bucky flushes, cheeks pinking. His curls, which were probably once stylishly mussed, are disarrayed like he’s been running his hands through them, and his eyes are red and bleary. He’s drunk, Steve realizes, but before he can say anything, Bucky sneers. “I suppose that makes you two best friends then,” he spits at Daisy, words slurring slightly. He turns to Steve and grins mockingly. “Are you going to sleep with her too?”

Steve’s jaw drops, but Daisy just crosses her arms against her chest and fixes Bucky with the sternest glare Steve’s seen on anyone since Peggy. “I think you should watch yourself,” she says coldly. “Steve keeps claiming that you’re the best guy he knows, and he seems like a nice guy so he must see something in you, asshole.”

Immediately, Bucky’s face pales, and his expression fills with regret and shame.

“He’s drunk,” Steve offers stiffly, “but that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

“I can tell,” Daisy states, sliding off the stool. “It was lovely meeting you, Steve, but I think I should go. Text me some time if you wanna hang.” She moves towards the crowd, leaving Steve alone with Bucky at the bar.

“Well,” Bucky says weakly, “are you going to text her?”

Steve turns his attention on Bucky, and in this moment, he has never felt as infuriated as he does looking at the brunet. “Who do you think you are?” Steve asks, cold fury dripping from his words. “Who _the fuck_ do you think you are to talk to a perfectly nice girl like that? Someone I was conversing with?”

“I’m your best friend,” Bucky replies, but he sounds just as unsure as he looks, trembling under the weight of Steve’s rage.

“ _Are you_?” Steve snaps. “What kinda best friend avoids their friend for a week and then shows up drunk off their ass to insult them? I said more to Daisy in an hour than I’ve said to you since we slept together. Oh, did I mention that she knows that we slept together”

Bucky bows his head, eyes shining with a wet sheen. “You were flirting with her,” he says as if that’s an excuse for his behavior.

“I was _talking_ to her,” he growls back. “She has a boyfriend. You have no right to act like you’re jealous.”

His ma’s words flicker through his mind: _He always acted like you hung the moon_.

Something niggles at him, the possibility that Bucky has feelings for him, but the rage inside him is a fire burning so hot that it swallows the thought up in hungry flames.

“Stevie,” Bucky says brokenly. His shoulders are hunched, and his teeth chew nervously at the skin of his bottom lip. He looks crushed, almost hopeless. “Stevie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it!”

Steve can’t take it anymore. “Don’t ‘Stevie’ me,” he says quietly. “I can’t talk to you right now. I need to go.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, pressing his lips tightly together and doing his best to compose himself. “Don’t call me or text me for a while. I need some space.”

He storms away from the bar, leaving Bucky behind in the lurch, the brunet’s pleading eyes and trembling expression seared into his memory.

Steve holds it together all through the Uber ride home and the elevator ride up to his floor, but the moment he hits his bed, still in his clothes from the club, he breaks down, the emotion overwhelming so much that he screams and sobs into his soft pillows.

 

* * *

 

In the days following what Steve refers to as “the club incident,” he takes a break from the team, promising Phil that he just needs time to clear his head. He ignores most texts and phone calls unless they’re from Phil or his ma. Daisy texts him once, and Steve immediately responds with several apologies. She forgives him and tells him he should consider the fact that Bucky might have been majorly jealous at the club.

He has considered that; he truly has. Steve has combed through every memory with Bucky in it, searching for the smallest of possibilities that Bucky showed signs of feeling something for him.

Something. _Anything_.

He remembers how, when they were kids, Bucky would scowl and get upset if Steve played with another kid at recess. How, in junior year, he asked Eliza Little out on a date when Steve confessed that he had a crush on her. They’d had one of their worst fights then.

How, after Steve met Peggy, Bucky began sleeping around much more frequently.

But Bucky hasn’t shown any kind of feelings for Steve when they interact, so he himself may not have been consciously aware of how he felt about Steve.

Because, it has to be as everyone’s been saying, that there was always something between Steve and Bucky, and neither of them ever noticed.

That’s the only way it makes any sense in his head.

Steve sighs, sitting up from where he’s lying in bed.

After the first day, most of the anger he felt has disappeared, but he still can’t forgive Bucky yet, not after how he acted.

Steve has come to face the facts; he has feelings for his best friend. He doesn’t know where things will go from here, but that one truth remains.

 

* * *

 

 

The next afternoon, Steve is on his couch watching _Chopped_ when there’s a knock on his front door. He mutes the television but does not get up to open the door.

Steve’s visitor knocks once again and a third time before giving up; Steve strains his ears for the sound of footsteps walking away, but he hears nothing.

After a few minutes of silence, the person on the other side of the door finally speaks. “Steve,” they say. “Steve, I know you’re mad at me.”

It’s Bucky.

Bucky reiterates the comment. “I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry for everything, for how I acted at the Panther. Phil told me about Daisy, and I called her and apologized. She said that I acted like an asshole but ultimately forgave me. I don’t remember everything, but I know I said some pretty shitty things.” He pauses. “Okay, some really shitty things. Daisy told me some of what I said, and I would have punched myself then if I could. I don’t know why you didn’t.”

There’s brief silence.

“You’re made of goddamn sunshine, did you know that, Steve? You’re so _good_ , so _nice_ , that even when I was acting like the scum on the bottom of your shoe, you didn’t raise a hand against me. You’re a goddamn saint, Rogers.” Bucky sniffles. “Please open the door, Steve. I just want to talk. Let me apologize to you, face-to-face. Please give me that chance.”

Steve doesn’t move; every muscle is paralyzed.

“Please, Stevie?” Bucky’s voice cracks. “I know I fucked up. I really did. We slept together, but I was the one who fled when you tried to talk about it. I was the one who avoided you. I _ruined_ what we had already made fragile. I was a thick-skinned, stubborn idiot, but let me fix this. Just open the door, please? Talk to me, Stevie.”

Bucky’s pleading now, his voice thin and emotional, but Steve steels himself, jaw tight, as he grinds his teeth.

“Stevie?”

The nickname hangs heavy in the silence, a lingering, emotional question.

The brunet releases a breathy sob. “Stevie, please.”

Steve doesn’t respond; his voice is caught like muffled cotton in his throat.

There’s another quiet sob and a sniffle, echoing loudly, before the rapid pounding of footsteps like Bucky’s running away down the hallway.

Ten minutes pass, and Steve finds the strength to rise up and open his door and peer down the empty hallway. He stumbles down to the elevator and peeks into the trash.

There’s a gorgeous bouquet of pale peonies and blood-red roses lying untarnished above a pile of Chinese take-out and another trash bag.

For some reason, Steve’s heart squeezes painfully, something ugly and jagged building at the pit of his stomach. Unconsciously, he bites his lip until it starts to bleed but doesn’t notice.

Then he turns around so quickly that it nearly gives him whiplash before he makes a break for the stairs.

 

* * *

 

When Steve bought his apartment, he chose one on the third floor. It had started to rain some time within the last hour, meaning the sidewalks are mostly clear but the New York City traffic is bumper-to-bumper. The average New Yorker walks about half a mile in ten minutes, but Steve can run a five-minute mile. And, above all, New Yorkers can be real assholes.

These are random facts that Steve realizes he is immensely grateful for as he darts from the lobby of his building into the pouring rain outside, continuing his course down the sidewalk, albeit slightly slower to avoid slipping on the slick concrete.

Within minutes, his clothes are plastered to his skin, but there is only _Bucky_ on his mind.

His heart beats a staccato rhythm in time with his sneakers pounding against the pavement, and each step brings him closer and closer to his unknown destination.

Finally, he sees _him_.

Bucky, drenched to the bone with a scowl and red-rimmed eyes, holding the door of a yellow taxi open and arguing with the taxi driver.

Bucky, only half a block ahead.

The hoarse cry is torn from Steve’s throat before his mind can even formulate Bucky’s name.

“Bucky!”

The brunet glances up at the sound of his name, his face contorting into an expression of surprise and hurt. He whips his head away and nods to the taxi driver, backing away onto the sidewalk under an overhang as the taxi door falls shut.

The taxi peels away from the curbs and merges into the stream of traffic to a symphony of honks and squealing tires.

Bucky is staring straight up at Steve, shaking his head, eyes wide. His body is twisted oddly like his mind is caught in flight-or-fight, but his feet are rooted to the ground with indecision.

Steve crosses the distance between them in a matter of seconds, staggering to a stop beside Bucky with a bright smile that has the brunet taking a cautious half-step back. Then Steve doubles over, elbows braced on his knees, wheezing as he attempts to catch his breath.

Out of two decades of instinct, Bucky is moving closer to him, placing a warm hand on Steve’s spine to ease him.

Steve straightens up, waving him off. “I’m fine, Buck. I’m honestly fine.”

Bucky’s lips have curved into a strangely emotionless smile. “Alright,” he says, his eyes flickering off to the side. He yanks his hand off Steve’s back as if he’s suddenly aware of their proximity.

“Buck,” Steve says pleadingly.

“What do you want, Rogers?” he asks with monotony.

Steve’s left wordless. There’s so many things to say, so many ways to say it, but none of them seem like they’ll be enough.

He settles for what _feels_ right; he gently takes Bucky’s hands up in his own and lifts them to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of Bucky’s knuckles.

“I love you,” he whispers, the scariest confession he has ever made in his thirty-something years of life. “And I didn’t know that until now.”

Bucky stares up at him with soft eyes, water droplets glimmering on his long lashes and scattering as he blinks. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he finally speaks.

“Look. I stood outside your door for twenty minutes pouring my heart out, thinking that I would build up the courage to say the words if you opened your door. But you didn’t. Do you expect me to say it back now?”

His tone is sad, his shoulders slumped, but Steve doesn’t think that he’s imagining the slightly hopeful tinge to Bucky’s words.

“Well, no,” Steve breaths. “I don’t exactly expect you to say it back. Admittedly, you avoided me and then made a terrible mistake, but I forgave you for it. Then, I fucked up, but I’m here now.”

“And what am I supposed to do about it?” Bucky asks, head bowed.

Steve sighs. “You were an idiot. I was an idiot. I forgive you, I’m sorry, and I love you?” he offers hesitantly.

Scowl disappearing off his face immediately, Bucky smiles. “That’s all I need to hear,” he says before hooking a bewildered Steve in for a tentative kiss.

“Huh?”

Mind numb and lips tingling with pleasure, Steve can only stare up at Bucky with an expression that resembles that of a puppy with a tilted head.

Head rearing back, Bucky laughs. “I forgave you the moment I saw you in the sidewalk, running like an idiot, punk.”

“Huh,” Steve repeats, nodding. “Good. Now, shuddup and kiss me.”

“Gladly,” Bucky states before he pulls Steve closer, winding his arms around the other man’s waist.

Steve doesn’t know how long they stand there, kissing like the world’s ending, but Natasha could promise to tell them her actual job and he wouldn’t step away if it meant leaving the warm embrace of Bucky’s arms.

Ultimately, a straggling passerby begins to wolf-whistle, and Steve and Bucky break apart just before Bucky twitches his nose and releases out a barrage of sneezes like machine gun fire, thankfully turning his face away from Steve’s.

“We better get out of the rain,” Steve says, smirking, Bucky nodding his agreement.

 

* * *

 

Back in Steve’s apartment building, Steve unlocks the door with wavering hands as Bucky trails hot kisses down the delicate skin of his neck, biting gently here and there.

The moment the door opens, they burst through it, and Steve pins Bucky to the wall and devours his mouth.

“I never want to let you go,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s mouth. Ironically, a second later, his face scrunches up, and he does in fact let Bucky go as it’s Steve’s turn to sneeze.

He glances up to find Bucky looking at him in amusement but also concern. “We should probably get out of these clothes,” Bucky comments.

“And take warm showers,” Steve adds. His gaze never stays far from Bucky’s rosy lips.

Bucky’s blue eyes take on a devious gleam, and he smirks, opening his mouth to make a suggestion.

Steve despises that expression; he really does. “No, Bucky. We’re not having sex for the first time in a shower,” he states firmly.

“But,” Bucky begins, “technically, it’d be our second time.” Stepping closer to Steve, he purrs in the other man’s ear, “It’s totally acceptable to have shower sex for our second time.”

Shivering at the seductive tone of Bucky’s words, Steve tries to think of an excuse. Can’t. Frowns slightly. Realizes that he doesn’t really want an excuse. Shrugs. “Okay.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, lips drifting apart, hand trailing down Steve’s chest toward his belt buckle. “I thought you’d put up more of a struggle.”

Steve shrugs again.

 

* * *

 

Steve shouts, his head colliding with the tile wall of his shower with a thud, his body alight with pleasure. Above him, the shower head beats a steady stream of warm water that flows down in rivulets once it hits Steve’s naked skin. Below him, nestled between his spread legs, Bucky licks a fat stripe up the underside of Steve’s cock before taking it into his mouth.

“Fuuuuuck,” Steve cries, and the brunet hums around the cock in his mouth. Steve’s grip tightens in his best friend’s curls, using all the strength he possesses to not glance down and stare at how Bucky’s lips are stretched obscenely wide.

It’s only Bucky’s arm pressing against Steve’s waist that keeps him from thrusting up.

Bucky scrapes his teeth against the velvety skin of Steve’s dick once, and it’s over for Steve, the pleasure surging up and threatening to overwhelm him. He calls out Bucky’s name when he comes into Bucky’s mouth, the brunet letting the cum pool along his tongue.

When Steve’s orgasm is over, he slumps against the wall, and Bucky opens his mouth and spits, the cum spiraling its way to the drain with the suds from the shampoo.

“Well, that’s an acquired taste,” he says hoarsely.

Blindly, Steve reaches for his boyfriend – and if that doesn’t send a thrill down his spine every time he thinks or says that – and pulls Bucky in for a quick, rough kiss. They part, and Steve grimaces at the taste lingering in Bucky’s mouth. “Ew,” he says.

“I told you,” Bucky replies, laughing.

Carefully, Steve maneuvers them so he can pin Bucky against the wall and kiss the living daylights out of the brunet, only stepping back when they’re both aching to breathe. Bucky gazes up at him with glazed eyes, but Steve only looks down at the brunet’s still hard length, licking his lips.

“The shower’s running cold,” Bucky notes weakly.

Steve smiles deviously. “Well, you better come fast, because in a moment, I’m gonna eat your ass so hard you see stars. Then we’re gonna move to the bedroom where I can fuck you the right way.”

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers. “Who knew Steve Rogers was such a dirty talker?” He clears his throat with an anxious cough. “What’s the right way?”

The water has plastered Steve’s hair to his skull so that the fine blond strands appear more of a darker brown. He pushes his hair from his face, shrugging. “I haven’t figured out yet,” he admits, blushing. “The last time I slept with a guy was in college, so I’m going off my limited experience.

Bucky holds Steve’s gaze, visibly trying to hold back his snickering. “We’ll figure it all out along the way,” he states, biting his lip hard.

“I better get started.” Steve drops to his knees and spreads Bucky’s plump ass cheeks before burying his face between them, tongue worming its way into Bucky’s tight hole.

When Bucky comes, he screams so loudly the cry echoes around the bathroom for several long moments.

After finally catching his breath, he slams the shower’s tap shut and drags Steve to the bed.

And, later, when they lie in bed exhausted and sticky with sweat and dry cum, Bucky will whisper “I love you” to Steve, and Steve will whisper “I love you back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) to let me know how much you liked this fic or request a prompt. Comments and kudos would be nice too!


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